Assimilation
by Insomniazzz
Summary: Out of school and full of options for once, Furrball runs into trouble with … well, everyone. Nothing new here. Except this time he fights back; in the streets in the ring, in a bar and for what? Perhaps a shot at a normal life. And Rita?
1. Chapter 1

_Characters intellectual property of Warner Brothers, blah blah blah…_

_Assimilation_– Lunes Insomniazzz

**F**

"Hey there, handsome."

Furrball glanced nervously in the direction of his neighbor before hanging his head again. It'd been four months since graduation and he'd moved into an apartment, but he still wasn't used to anyone really talking to him. The young raccoon scooted closer to him, making the cat tense up.

"You gonna make it to the roof party, right?" She tapped the flyer on the elevator door as they ascended.

Furrball glanced at the paper. He'd read it a few times that week, but never connected "open party" with a personal invitation, yet this rather attractive raccoon was asking him to go. The feline shrugged for lack of a better action.

"C'mon, sexy! Everyone's dying to meet you."

Furrball flashed the raccoon a suspicious look when the elevator door opened. She laughed before continuing. "We're all so curious about you. I mean you never stop and chat with anyone and we're a pretty friendly bunch. It's not normal to have a recluse in our midst."

He gave her an awkward smile and nodded slightly as the elevator came to a stop.

"Great!" the raccoon embraced Furrball causing the feline to freeze up even more.

The incredibly narrow hallway didn't allow for much personal space. Furrball started to sweat. He was neighbors with the raccoon, but they'd never gotten off the elevator together before. She was still smiling at him as he opened his door, accidently opening it all the way. The blue cat grabbed his face, waiting for the inevitable reaction that came right on time.

"My god! You were robbed!" she ran into his apartment, looking around.

There was nothing in the living room, save a small box lying against the heater. Furrball made a calming motion with his hands as the raccoon reached for her cell phone. He pointed to the box, then himself. He held up a single finger and pointed to himself again, smiling weakly.

"Wait, are you serious?" The raccoon guessed his pantomime accurately and backed up a step.

Furrball closed his eyes, clasped his hands and bowed slightly.

"You're a monk?"

He looked out the window. The raccoon soon got the hint.

"A-alright. See you at the party, then."

Furrball shut the door, sighing.

_I don't need anything._

He kicked the air and flopped down on the floor.

_Why didn't you just say that?_

**FU**

The evening wasn't exactly going as planned. Furrball found himself once again walking down an alley he'd frequented many times as a kitten on the way back to his flat from the subway. A blind guy was leaning against the wall. He dropped a $20 bill in his hat. As he made his way down the alley, the cat's keen ears detected fast footsteps and the rattling of change. He spun around to find a scruffy looking mutt emptying the contents of the blind guy's hat into his pocket. The blue feline was appalled. He'd spent the majority of his life on the streets and never stole money. Especially from a blind person. Feeling a sense of obligation, Furrball faced the thief and scowling, approached him.

"The hell you looking at, pussy?"

Furrball pointed an accusing finger at the mutt and sharply pointed back to the blind guy.

"You gonna make me, pussy?"

The mutt gestured at Furrball, who seized the opportunity to strike, hitting him the groin. The mutt doubled over and the cash fell from his jacket. Furrball bent down to pick it up. Suddenly, a shadow appeared above him. Furrball noticed it just in time to avoid being struck on the head but wasn't fast enough to dodge the boot to his back. He dropped to his knees, panting. Before he could recover, a pair of heavy paws clamped down over his shoulders from behind. Furrball tried his best to dodge and minimize the barrage of punches that subsequently followed. He shook himself free after receiving a few blows to the face.

Before he could escape, one of the canines tripped him up, causing Furrball to smash his face into the wall. He crumbled to the pavement, grabbing his bloody face. The dog pulled his tail up and knelt over him.

"How much ya got, pussy?" he grunted trying to fit his chubby paw into the cat's back pocket.

The unlucky one still had some fight left in him, however. Rolling over, he was directly underneath the dog. He immediately grabbed the canine's six-hour and squeezed the trigger, hitting him in the shoulder. The thief slumped over and Furrball pulled himself to his feet. The other assailant wore a look of shock, which quickly turned to rage when he registered what had happened. As he reached into his own pocket, the piece went off again, a bullet crashing into his kneecap.

"Should've killed 'em, boy." The blind bum commented as the bangers whimpered in a pool of blood. Furrball backed up a couple of steps, viewing the scene with disbelief. He ran off, the gun still clutched in his paws.

As he slowly dragged himself down the hallway to his apartment, Furrball tried his best to keep his blood from making a trail. Tried and mostly failed. Entering his apartment, the cat slammed the door, not bothering to lock it as he collapsed in the middle of his floor.

"Oh my god!"

The injured cat was awakened by the raccoon next door. The pistol was hidden in his shirt that he'd unconsciously folded into a makeshift pillow. Furrball turned over slowly, trying to hide his face in his palms. The raccoon would have none of that, pulling his hands down, inspecting his wounds intently.

"Who…never mind. Wait a second, okay?"

The raccoon left his pad for a moment and Furrball took the opportunity of solitude to slide the gun under the heater. Just after he did, the raccoon returned with a first aid kit.

"I can stop the bleeding, but you may have a concussion so I should probably call 911…"

Furrball touched the raccoon's paw as she grabbed her phone. He shook his head weakly.

"What, no insurance?"

The feline smirked, nodding slightly. Who'd insure him, anyway?

The raccoon smiled gently. Opening the kit, she produced an eye-dropper. Furrball flinched, causing her to giggle.

"It's not gonna hurt. Just need a hue sample of your fur." She plugged the sample into an airbrush and went to work on his face. The healing paints slowly did their magic, dressing the wounds, but did nothing to numb the pain. When she was finished she sat in front of her patient, admiring her work.

Furrball felt his face. It was back to normal, though the splitting headache he had made it difficult to appreciate this. He gave a small mew of gratitude regardless, bowing his head. It was the first time he'd ever had the opportunity, not to mention the need to do so.

-The End- *part 1*


	2. Chapter 2

**FUR**

The young cat rounded the corner as he left the drugstore on his weekly painkiller supply run. It had been just under a month since the incident and things had been looking up, despite the harrowing circumstances leading to this day. The sun peeked out from a cloud for a moment, warming the feline's face. With his eyes closed, Furrball faced the star, inhaling deeply and purred as he began his trek home.

The raccoon came over twice a day or more recently. At first it'd been to check on his health. He learned her name, finally…Regina. She was an LPN at the local hospital. Worked night shift. Single. 21, so four years older than he. Not so bad. She'd even treated Minerva Mink a few times this year.

He'd been avoiding the alley ever since the incident, but today he was less vigilant, being in an uncharacteristically good mood. As soon as he stepped into the alley, an ominous feeling snapped him out of his bliss. The pharmacy bag fell into the puddle, causing a splash.

"That's the motha!" Furrball recognized the voice. He'd been too scared to remember the dog's face, but the voice had been haunting his dreams for the past few weeks. He looked ahead to see a pack of street mutts, standing on the other end of the alley, the ugliest one in a sling, pointing a bat at him. He threw the bat down and produced a large weapon. The cat sprinted in the opposite direction, not caring to find out what it was.

Furrball could hear shouting behind him as he tried to evade the pack. Occasionally, a bullet whizzed by his ear as he ducked into different routes trying to get away as onlookers ducked for cover or ran into stores. He was really fast and they were lousy shots. Perhaps toying with him.

Eventually only one of the gang seemed to be on his tail and wasn't packing heat as far as Furrball could tell. They'd run seven blocks and Furrball was in a part of town he'd never been before. A split second decision caused him to duck into a dead end. Grabbing the door on the left, he pulled, praying for it to be unlocked. Failed.

The dog was now at the end of the alley. Whistled for his crew to come. Furrball looked around, desperately. The fire escape was too high to reach. More dogs showed up, guns drawn as they slowly approached, wide grins plastered across their muzzles. The cat thought about jumping the fence or onto the dumpster to reach the fire escape. He leapt quickly from the ground to the fence to the dumpster, but missed the fire escape ladder by a few inches and crashed onto the pavement, causing the dogs to break down in hysterical, exaggerated laughter.

Furrball's eyes narrowed as the dog in the splint holstered his piece and produced a ka-bar.

"There's more than one way to skin a cat!" he chuckled as he approached. The feline backed against the fence as the dog raised his knife. He caught the dog's arm in mid-swing and jerked the knife out of his grasp. Wasting no time, he thrust the blade into the gangster's already injured shoulder.

"Sonofab**ch…!" the dog pushed him back against the fence and pulled out his gun again. Before he could aim, the door that was locked swung open hard smashing the blade further into the dog's shoulder, causing him to inadvertently drop the gun. Furrball took the opportunity to grab the weapon aiming it at his cronies in the back. The standoff ended before more blood was spilled as the sound of the cocking of a large caliber rifle caused all eyes to focus on the fire escape. Four cats were standing up there, fully armored. Three cats were perched on the fence, as well. The feline who opened the door on the dog stepped out of the shadows of the building, twin pistols in hand, casually switching targets at the gang of mutts.

"Drop 'em or we drop you." He spoke calmly, though there was a definite undertone of authority in his voice. The mutts complied as the resident sniper on the fire escape opened his scope.

"Now collect this piece of sh*t and piss off." He growled, kicking the downed dog for emphasis. A dachshund slowly approached, kneeling to pick up the alpha when Furrball stepped forward, intending to shoot. The black and white cat holstered his pistols and disarmed him with relative ease, smiling kindly.

"Ruthless is the way of the mutt, my friend." He spoke in an almost condescending tone as the dogs ran off. Furrball cocked his head as the others joined the two, showing off their agility. The sniper cat holstered his weapon in a sling on his backside.

"You got some badass moves, kit." He extended a paw. Furrball was still in "fight mode" and jumped back a bit, ready to pounce. Before he could raise his own paw, he felt something soft behind him. He spun around, claws retracted nearly slicing another cat who was quick to the draw shoving his revolver into Furrball's eye.

"Kinda seems out of context, but you can relax, slicer. The threat's long gone." The leader spoke, stepping between Furrball and the quick draw, lowering his comrade's weapon slowly.

Furrball concealed his claws and tried his best to relax. There was something in the alpha's tone that relaxed him a bit.

"We're not a gang like those mutts, if you're wondering." The alpha continued. "We're more of a militia, keeping our neighborhood safe." Furrball nodded as they all began walking down the alley and into the street. The cats were not shy about packing heat in the open and the merchants and businesspeople in the street didn't seem to notice at all. Furrball looked around surprised.

"The name's Beans if you didn't recognize me. Welcome to the 317. The first all-feline foundation in the city."

Furrball looked around again. Sure enough, everyone was a cat of some kind in the area.

_This place is…is…_

"Amazing?" Beans presumptuously finished Furrball's sentence, causing Furrball to face the cat, looking him in the eye for the first time. It was then that Furrball noticed the jagged scar from Beans's cheek to his left eye. There were stitches above his black and white forehead as well.

_Why only cats?_

Beans started laughing, slapping Furrball on the back.

"You serious? Let me put it this way. I'll bet what happened to your ear had nothing to do with a piercing gone wrong." Beans unzipped his shirt, exposing some rather ugly scars and crudely constructed stitches running up and down his chest and stomach. The other cats revealed similar war wounds. Beans zipped up his shirt again and continued walking, looking away for a moment, his eyes narrowing before speaking again.

"No cat made any of those." he said softly.

The sniper cat caught up with the two and took off his shooting glasses. Furrball shuddered. The cat's left eye was, well, missing.

"That's why they call me "Blinky," he announced, before putting the shades back on.

"Yeah, we all have similar horror stories of life outside of the 317. That's why we gave up and created this place. We run stuff here, so no one outside of the species is allowed in." Beans plopped down on the edge of a fountain in the park. Furrball stood near him, still not entirely comfortable.

_So, not just dogs, then? Everything else?_

"That's right. You don't see any raccoons running around here, do you?"

_I like raccoons._

QuickDraw stepped up to Furrball. "Why don't you friggin' roll with them, then?" he hissed.

Furrball's eyes narrowed as he took a step toward him. QuickDraw met his stare and stance stepping into Furrball's space.

"Nobody's questioning your species, Slicer." Beans's nonchalant tone waltzed with uncertainty as he pulled QuickDraw away slowly. QuickDraw pulled his revolver as soon as Beans let go aiming at Furrball's eye once more. Furrball neither flinched, nor reacted. Nearly a minute passed. Everyone held their breath. QuickDraw spun his piece like a cowboy and concealed it swiftly, shaking his head with laughter.

"Damn, Slicer! The way you lookin' at me, I bet even if I shot you, the Grim Reaper wouldn't wanna escort you to hell!" He sat down, still shaking his head, a big smile plastered on his face.

Beans looked surprised. "You never warm up to outsiders, Q D. What gives?"

"He's the real deal, Beansi. El Diablo gatito." QuickDraw smiled proudly.

"So you gotta name, Slicer?"

"_Slicer" sounds fine._

"What do they call you?"

_Nothing I want to broadcast. As if you didn't know…_

Beans gave Furrball a curious look. "'Slicer' it is, then. Welcome to the 317 Militia."

_You don't speak Catonese._

"That gonna be a problem?"

_Just an observation. But what's the reason?_

"It's our original language, yeah… But it's a slave language."

_Excuse me?_

"C'mon, get off your high horse. I mean, really... how is anyone going to take us seriously if we choose to interact with others using Catonese? They're gonna put saucers of warm milk out on their front porches and expect us to rub against their legs walking on all fours when we're around. That sound like the life you want?"

_I like warm milk._

"That's not the point, man."

_I'm not a man. I'm a cat._

"And I'm not?"

_You're worried about fitting in with those that you have explicitly attempted to segregate yourself from. _

"Suddenly, I don't like your tone."

_Don't worry, I'm going back home to my raccoon girlfriend._

"I wouldn't be much of a comrade if I didn't give you a fresh new scar to show off to your girl." A tall lion with a hatchet stood up from the background, stepping in front of Furrball. He was at least two heads taller.

_Cute axe. Guess you're too stupid to know your claws are much sharper. _

The lion raised the blade, eyes narrowing.

_Aren't you that idiot from the '40s that sent us back 200 years with your cartoons?_

"Maybe I'll just finish the job on that ear of yours." The lion crouched down to eye level with the blue cat and leapt backward. "Not like you did much better, Furrball."

"Leo, enough." Beans stepped in between the two, more worried about Furrball than his comrade.

Furrball turned to leave.

_If you're going to shoot me, do it in the back._

"He's, messed up in the head, isn't he, boss?"

…

"Bo-"

"I think we all are, QD."

**FURR**

Furrball's heart was still beating a million times a minute when he reached his floor. Regina was home. He could hear her ghetto blaster. For some reason, he was still on edge. Turning the knob on his door, a sharp pain shot through his spinal cord causing a jerk reaction, making him slam open his door. He nearly tripped on the unopened bottle of painkillers in the threshold. With lightening speed, his eyes darted around the room, searching for the intruder, finding no one. As per usual, his apartment was empty. Kneeling down to pick up the bottle he discovered it was wet, causing his senses to heighten once more. As his front door closed, he noticed the cast on the leg first, eye ascending to find the inevitable barrel of a shotgun pointing in his direction.

"Gotta learn to lock your doors, pussy." The oily voice from the alley. Torture to the feline's ears. Furrball leapt diagonally towards the heater as the dog got his first shot off, completely missing his target. As the banger pumped the shotgun to take a second shot, Furrball reached under the heater and pulled out the pistol he'd requisitioned in their last encounter. Too afraid to close his eyes, Furrball pointed the gun in the general direction of the dog and squeezed the trigger until the bullets stopped coming out.

-The End- *part 2*


	3. Chapter 3

**FURRB**

Marc Antony looked at his watch. 10:50. A smile escaped the lips of the normally cross bulldog. Ten minutes till closing time, yeah… but also…

Like clockwork, the cat slunk off the sit-up bench and approached the heavy bag hidden in the shadows at the southwest corner. The regulars had all gone home for the day. All of a sudden, the sandbag came to life with the sound of a marching band cadence. The way he handled the sand, the blue cat had nothing to be shy about, but he seemed invisible in plain sight when there was a crowd. Never uttered a word to anyone as far as Marc Antony could tell. The only indication that the feline even had vocal cords was the sound of his occasional growls, panting and grunts he made while obliterating the bag. It'd been six months give or take a week since the cat showed up at the gym. He was usually there from open to close every day.

Marc Antony had a zero tolerance policy for bullying or teasing in the gym. Wouldn't really have mattered anyway, as everyone in the gym spent each moment trying to impress him. He'd produced 12 world champions in three different weight classes. Of course they wouldn't be able to retain his service by beating down on a cat that never swung back. And yet here he was, staring at his future prospect in the corner brutalizing a heavy bag for ten minutes out of an eleven-hour day.

Marc Antony had followed him one night out of curiosity. The cat usually slept in a cardboard box for a half an hour before going to work as a dishwasher at a late night diner. From there, he went to the docks just before dawn to work the port recovery then catch a quick nap before going back to the gym.

At the sound of the 11:00 alarm, the bag stopped abruptly.

"I'm not in a hurry today." He tried to sound nonchalant. "Why don't you take a shower before you go?"

Furrball normally avoided eye contact with anyone but smiled at the bulldog gratefully before going to the locker room.

On their way out the door, Marc Antony stopped. "Could use some company for dinner. How 'bout it?"

Furrball's eyes lit up for a moment, but he shook his head no. The manager smirked. "Too bad. Looks like I gotta force you."

**FURRBA**

Furrball graciously dug into his pasta while Marc Antony pushed his steak around on his plate.

"I was about your age when I started out. By the time I turned 19, I had 40 fights under my belt. It was hell tryin' to balance that with acting, but I managed. Didn't have no manager. Didn't really think 'bout what I was doing."

Marc Antony took a large gulp of his whiskey. It didn't seem to affect him at all. Furrball stopped eating and gave the bulldog his full attention.

"Ya know that Pussyfoot had an older brother?" The cat shook his head.

"Guess you wouldn't. Most didn't. He was a great fighter, actually. Number one contender for the title when I was number 3. Broke his left fist right before his first title shot. They asked me to take his place. He cried "foul". Said he'd take me on with his broken fist so I couldn't have a title shot in the street. I tried to stay clear until he torched my Barracuda. I mean I loved that car… Pussyfoot kept begging me to let it go, but I gave in. Clocked him in the temple within of a minute of the fight. He never got up. She never forgave me."

Furrball didn't really know what to do. He put his fork down, laying his paws on the table, a gesture to encourage the bulldog to continue. It worked. "Couldn't bring myself to step in the ring for cash again after that. Used all the money I'd earned to open the gym. I beat the case because I think the judge was prejudice against Cats. Not proud of that. Never was. Anyways, I think you got the stuff to make lucky #13. How's about it?"

The young cat looked at Marc Antony, puzzled.

"You planning on working the docks the rest of your life, kid?"

The younger mammal put down his fork and started to stand up. Marc Antony banged the table with his fist, nearly toppling the dishes. His whiskey bottle fell off the table. Before he could react, Furrball reached across the table and snatched it, taking a swig before putting it back on the table.

The two locked eyes for a moment.

"You got killer reaction time and decent reach for a feller your size." Furrball didn't divert his eyes as he usually did when given a compliment. "But you can't just stand aside or run in the opposite direction when someone challenges you. I bet you been doin' that all your life, huh?"

Furrball put the whiskey bottle down in front of him. He blinked away a tear.

"Nobody never gave me no advice when I was a kid. Nobody gave me a kind word, neither. I guess you know what that's like, but most folks don't." The cat stirred in his seat. Stared into his pasta dish.

"Now don't you just do as I say because I'm the first one to give you advice…but don't waste this opportunity, cat."

Furrball looked up, past the dog. There was a family of five sitting behind them. Young family. Why were they out at this time? Whatever.

Marc Antony guessed what he was staring at. "You ever have that? You're looking at the father like you're jealous or somethin'. Ya got no right to be jealous, know that?"

Furrball's gaze snapped to a scowl fixated on Marc Antony.

"That's right," Marc Antony continued, unphased. "You don't deserve it now. You deserved it when you were a kid and it wasn't your fault. But what's your damned excuse now? Go out and make that money. Get you a family. Stop living in the past, goddamnit!"

A waiter hurried to the table. He couldn't have been more than 15 years old. "Ss- s-s-sir, could you p-p-please…."

Marc Antony glared at the kid for a moment, then smiled warmly and winked at him, nodding his head. Turning his attention back to Furrball as the waiter scurried off, Marc Antony smirked. "What's with the whole mute gimmick, anyway? The world doesn't deserve to hear what you have to say or something? Or maybe you're just bitter."

The cat's anger came to the surface as he started to shake. No one ever spent so much time baiting him.

"You wanna take a swing at me, doncha? Shut me up? Well you ain't got the balls, kiddo. If you did, you wouldn't be beatin' the hell outta that sandbag. You'd be earning your keep in the ring. Now hurry on up and hit me so we can seal the deal, champ."

Furrball threw a hook so wide, he fell off his seat, missing the canine altogether. Marc Antony chuckled a bit as he helped his prospect up. "We'll have to work on your control, kid."

Furrball smiled for the first time at the bulldog and poured him another glass of whiskey before the manager showed up to ask the two to leave.

**FURRBAL**

**3****월 **

"Boxing has shift to do with your arm strength, cat. That's a good thing, cuz you ain't got none."

**4****월**

"Twist at the hip more!"

5**월**

"Drive in with the leg, don't just follow through with it!"

"What kinda posture is that?"

**6****월**

"Three words, cat. Coun-ter punch."

**7****월**

"Ooh, so you're aggressive. Who the hell cares? That look intimidates no one. You gotta look focused. Focused!"

**8****월**

"Open your goddamned eyes! I swear! How the hell you gonna see a punch coming if you're not looking at the puncher?"

**9****월**

"So you got nothing? Then you got nothing to lose! Go out in blazes, kid!"

**FURRBALL**

Friday nights were the worst. The beginning of the weekend should have stimulated joy in the cat for a break from Marc Antony's relentless punishment. Yet this was the beginning of two days of solitude. Furrball always secretly craved the indulgence of another. He often thought about Regina and a slew of 'what ifs'

A car horn slapped Furrball back into reality. He'd been roaming the streets for an hour now, cooling down from training. The feline looked at his reflection in a puddle. Noticing he was alone, he flexed a bit. Wow. Actual muscles. He never really thought that to be possible. With a half smirk, he moved on. There was a club a couple of blocks from the gym that always held his interest. The cat wasn't a party animal by any sense of the word, but he'd always been intrigued by the sounds of a midnight live band. Tonight, there was a jazz piano calling his name. At first he passed by, as usual. He could tell the place was crowded. Something told his feet to ignore his instincts and he soon found himself face to chest with a huge bouncer at the door. The mutt looked him over briefly and was about to deny him access, but stopped when he noticed the patch on Furrball's jacket for Marc Antony's gym. He grunted and nodded at the entrance.

The place was crowded, but only because it was so incredibly small. Had he not been a cat, it might have been impossible to see, as the lighting was way too dim. Furrball sat at the far end of the bar as far away from the other patrons as possible. Tried to be invisible. Tried to focus on the stage for a moment. Get his mind off of everything. Tried to ignore the countless eyes that may have been on him.

"What can I gitcha, sonnie?" The barkeep smiled in a way that didn't seem forced at all. Furrball shrugged. No one had ever asked him that and he'd never been at a bar before. The barkeep gave him a long look then laughed.

"Well, you're one of Marc's kids, so you probably need a bourbon. But you're a minor, so you only got two choices. Ginger Ale or Root Beer. What'll it be?"

Furrball held up one finger and nodded.

"Ginger Ale?"

Furrball smiled and gave a thumbs up.

"You got it. I guess you're the one Marc's been going on and on about, arncha?"

Furrball looked at his feet, uncomfortable.

_Hey kid, it's nothing to hang your head about. He says you're going straight to the top!_

His nostrils flared. He detected a hint of wildflowers. They always drove him crazy, for some reason. Too bad, though. Her voice sounded so much ol-

Never mind.

_Do, do we know each other?_

_Different time same studios. _

_Rita?_

_'Fraid so. There's just no work for our kind anywhere in showbiz these days. Outside of commercials, anyway._

_I'd die before I did a commercial._

_Know what you mean. So it's true you don't speak human?_

_I guess so. Haven't really had a need to. _

_Yeah, yeah. I only like talking when I'm singing. Too bad they got me singing stuff that ain't in my soul. Course if I sang what was on my mind, they'd probably try and skin me. _

_I know the feeling._

"Here's your ginger ale, sonnie."

_I gotta get going. I'm on stage next. Nice talking with ya… What do I call you? _"Furrball"_ doesn't sound right to me._

_Nothing suits me. It's better you don't call me anything. I'll know you're talking to me since everyone else seems to have forgotten how to speak Catonese._

_I hear that. See ya around!_

Furrball inhaled deeply as soon as Rita turned to leave. What he detected was no longer wildflowers. It was gunpowder. The looming shadow caused a flashback. Furrball spun around to see the bouncer from earlier glaring at him.

"She's spoken for."

Furrball's eyes narrowed as he got off of his stool stepping in front of his new rival. The dog laughed, slapping his knee.

"An atom weight wants to take on a heavyweight, eh?" Runt cracked his knuckles. It sounded like tables breaking. Furrball held his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

_Everybody's gotta story_

_To tell_

_Sometimes ya just wanna tell the man_

_Go to _

_Hello my darlin' nice to see you again_

_I may be lucky_

_If I can stay out of the pen_

Rita's singing ended the standoff as soon as it started. She had that affect on everyone. Her soothing voice. Stage presence. Appearance. Furrball snapped back into reality. Didn't want to interrupt Rita's performance. That would be an unforgivable sin. He turned to leave the bar.

Besides…getting a black eye on the eve of his professional debut would probably piss off Marc Antony.

-The End- *part 3*


	4. Chapter 4

**FURRBALL'S**

"You didn't bring an endswell? What kinda f***kin' moron cutman doesn't bring an endswell to a damned fight?"

"It's a four rounder against a no name hack! Didn't think I needed to prepare any, what with your little endorsement of the kid. It's only the second round anyway. Let 'em know how to take him out this round!"

"Kid, listen to me, okay."

SECONDS OUT!

"Kid, he's only blockin' high. Break his ribs! Got that?"

SECONDS OUT!

"Cristo, these… Do it, kid. And dodge. Don't just stand there, okay?"

Furrball knew he was sitting in front of Marc Antony but it sounded as if he were hearing him talk from an underground tunnel a few miles away. All he could really hear clearly was a sharp ringing in his ears. Before he was aware of his actions, he was facing his opponent again and an even louder ring snapped him out of his trance as the other cat rushed towards him. Instinctively, he rushed back at the last second, driving his right fist just under the cat's ribs, not stopping even after he heard the crack. The cat's eyes dilated and Furrball took the opportunity to side step and slam his left into the cat's liver. The cat's legs started buckling and he dropped his guard. Furrball, wasting no time threw a rotating hook to the cat's temple. The cat fell quickly, motionless with the exception of a slight twitch in his tail. The referee was pushing him back yelling at him to go to a neutral corner. Furrball didn't…couldn't comply. He was completely mesmerized by his right glove.

The bell sounded again. Marc Antony ran into the ring and gave him a hug. Actually, no. Not a hug. He was supporting him so Furrball wouldn't collapse. The referee held up his arm and Marc Antony ushered him into the locker room quickly. It was finished as fast as that.

**FURRBALL'S P**

"Hey yo. Get up already, kid. It's past 3!"

Furrball yawned slowly, lest he reopen tears in his mouth from the fight. Tumbling over on his back, the cat opened his eyes.

"Look at you, kid. You're a freakin' mess. I don't get the death wish you got. What the f**k was you thinking getting your ass beat before your match? You should've been able to take that kitten out in twenty seconds."

Furrball looked down at the floor with his one good eye.

"Look kid. I got a reputation to maintain. One match in and people made a rep for you too. Atom weights don't take the rep of being street brawlers. Now you're gonna have featherweights and flyweight dropping pounds to get you in the ring. You're attracting attention you don't need to have."

Furrball stood up; started heading toward the shower.

"Pete said it was Runt." Marc Antony spoke in a softer tone, causing Furrball to look at the dog. Furrball nodded once, a hate filled glow lighting up his eyes.

"Next time, don't let 'im get the drop on you in the parking lot. Betcha she's waitin' for you." Marc Antony smirked and patted Furrball on the back as he started to open up the gym. He sat thoughtfully as Marc Antony disappeared from sight.

_Feelin' like a Scotch tonight…_ Furrball smirked as he headed for the shower.

**FURRBALL'S PU**

Rooftops were a rare comfort to Furrball, as they offered a bird's eye view from a cat's perspective. He could survey so much of the night from there without being a part of it. It suited him well. This particular instance of surveillance was not, however, arbitrary in nature. He was scouting for a certain vocalist of whom he'd developed a longing for in a short amount of time.

Spotting the target of his affection almost directly underneath him, Furrball whispered alongside of a breeze towards the melodic feline.

_Over here._

Rita's ear perked ever so slightly, but she made no real indication that she heard him. This likely was linked to her company at the time. As they approached the car, Rita stopped and whispered something into Runt's ear. The dog looked as if he were going to slap her, but instead got in the car, slammed the door and sped off, leaving Rita alone in the parking lot.

Concerned, Furrball maneuvered from the rooftop to the ground, negotiating multiple obstacles in doing so, for once without looking foolish in the process. Rita smiled warmly as the feline approached her.

_Did I just get you in trouble with your boyfriend?_ Furrball's tone didn't indicate any sarcasm.

_Ha, Runt? He'll just have to get over it. Heard you won last night despite the present he gave ya. _

_Yeah. I guess so. He was outta my league though, so Marc Antony doesn't even think it counts as a victory. _Furrball sat on the curb feeling a bit sorry for himself. Rita joined him, taking his paw.

_You don't start speaking up for yourself and pretty soon you'll be that same awkward kitten that you always professed to hate being._

Furrball's face dropped at those words and he pulled his paw away.

_Our language is not a slave language. It's not a handicap, either. _

_"Render unto Caesar". It doesn't make you any less of a cat to speak human with humans. I mean I suppose it'd be okay if you only spoke Catonese if you only interacted with cats on a daily basis._

Furrball stood up.

_Yeah okay. _he muttered. "B-better hurry h-h-home. You don't wanna k-k-keep your mutt b-b-boyfriend w-w-waiting."

Furrball walked off into the night as a shocked Rita sat breathless, staring at him. Her ears registered his voice, but her mind was slow to accept that he'd broken his code of silence with such malcontent words.

_Furrball, wait. _Rita recovered in time to stop Furrball dead in his tracks. Hearing his named in Catonese for the first time ever was more shocking to him than it had been for Rita to hear him speaking English. Rita sensed this, reading the look on his face.

_Even after everything else…Runt had plenty of opportunities to get out of the pound by himself or get his own place without me. Vice versa too. Species doesn't mean everything and at the end of the day, Runt's my partner. _

Furrball looked at his footpaws, considering her words. He felt an icy tinge of guilt.

_By your logic, you should be with the first cat you saw on the street like some feral mutt freak, thinking you and I were meant to be without even having any history. Find yourself that special someone. Don't you owe that to yourself?_

**FURRBALL'S PUL**

Hollywood. Los Angeles. Chicago. Seattle. Furrball was a tumbleweed sweeping the big cities. Now, in the professional boxing circuit, he actually had a reason to go to the various locations. There was a ridiculously limited pool of fighters in the atom weight division. Understandably so, as it was nearly impossible to drop the necessary weight if you had the muscles to fight with and those that naturally fit into the division generally didn't have any interest in prize fighting. Had he not been so incredibly paranoid and superstitious, Furrball might have said he was on a roll, as his official record was now 5 wins, zero losses. It would normally have been like any other game day. Usually, Furrball would train until he was told to stop and spent the rest of his time relaxing in the sauna during his camp preceding a match. This time was a bit different, though. He was in Chicago. Going to the United Center, actually. His first major card. He was going to be right before the main event.

Of course, that wasn't what was troubling him. His circumstances of leaving Chicago originally disturbed him. He'd left some unfinished business there in the form of a raccoon and a couple of gangs.

A knock at the door. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock. This particular knock told Furrball that the knocker had an elevated amount of confidence acquired from walking on the backs of others. He hadn't been around such people since, well, school.

Marc Antony had gone out for supplies for the match, leaving Furrball at the hotel by himself. Furrball hesitated to answer the door, knowing it had to be for his coach. The knock was persistent, however. Like he knew Furrball was there or something.

If for nothing else other than to get the damned sound to stop Furrball finally relented, answering the door, a cross look on his face.

"Would you look at that!" It was a vaguely familiar voice. A voice Furrball had heard many times before but never directed at him. As the man pushed past him to enter the room, Furrball scratched his head as his visitor made himself at home, raiding the mini bar and plopping down on the loveseat. He was business casual to a fault. It took another minute for Furrball to register his name just as the stranger introduced himself.

"The name's Bill Carlsley. I guess you don't remember."

Furrball finally connected the dots. The head photographer for merchandising.

"We never did much business in the past. That's because the WB screwed you over with their gritty depiction of you, showing you for who you were back at the Looniversity. Nobody wants a smelly, trash-eating cat on their backpacks. I mean, let's face it. Can't mince words with ya, Furrball. They did way too much of that when you were a kitten."

Furrball could feel the veins raising on his forehead. He started pacing in front of the man.

"Look. I'm not here to open old wounds or insult you, believe me, kid. Why would I travel 1500 miles for that? We left you twenty messages and sent 30 letters to your place. Why aren't you answering your mail?"

Furrball's eyebrow raised slightly and he cocked his head, the anger melting from his face, replaced swiftly by confusion.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" Carlsley guessed, not waiting for an answer. "Look, you're old enough that you're not some scrawny kitty anymore and you're getting the look of a real contender that could be marketable. I know you haven't done anything with the company since that Halloween Special in '94, but you could really be big now, Furrball."

Furrball sat on his bed, an odd smile appeared on his face that he was trying to pass off as a smirk.

"But you've got a potential fatal flaw that could jeopardize the dream before it even starts." The photographer paused for emphasis.

Furrball's ears detected footsteps outside his hotel room. Carlsley took a shot of gin and offered some to Furrball, who declined, folding his arms.

"You need to stop this boxing fantasy of yours. You could get your face really messed up. You've got this killer look that's Hollywood gritty now. But real-life gritty won't sell, as you well know. The PDs won't waste their time on such a high-risk client."

Furrball noticed the footsteps stop in front of the door.

"So if you say the word or scratch some post or meow or whatever you do, we're willing to do a photo shoot for you this weekend and if things go well, there might be a few commercials and even a guest appearance in it for ya. Then, who knows?"

Furrball stood up, seemingly not even considering the option to stop boxing. He pointed to the door and took the gin from Carlsley.

"Furrball, seriously. You haven't been boxing long at all. You're an actor at the very core. You're not a star, but you could be. You'll never be a star in the boxing ring. Why do you keep settling for less than your potential?"

A low, feral growl filled the apartment for a moment. Furrball nearly ripped the door off its hinges as he opened it. Pointing out the door, Furrball's eyes narrowed to fiery slits as he glared at his visitor. Carlsley looked as impressed as he did disappointed.

"That look alone could be worth tens of thousands." he tried.

Furrball snapped, retracted his claws. Carlsley got the hint realizing Furrball wasn't playing and really was trying to restrain himself from taking him apart.

Carlsley exited nearly bumping into Marc Antony who was standing near the doorway. The bulldog shoved the photographer aside, causing the man to hit the railing and nearly go off the side. Marc Antony closed the door, threw a plastic bag on his bed and looked at Furrball, trying to find a hint of regret or uncertainty. He found nothing. Nothing but the burning anger he'd always harbored in the depths of his soul. For some reason, Marc Antony found this most serendipitous.

"You're not gonna bail on me, kid?" Marc Antony tried to filter out the hopeful joy in his tone.

Furrball didn't respond immediately. He walked over to his bag and unzipped it, Marc Antony watching intently. Producing his gloves, Furrball stood in front of Marc Antony. He pointed to the gloves and then to himself. Gritted his teeth and hugged the mitts to his chest hard. Broke eye contact as the tears began to well up.

"You're not doing this for _me_ anymore, are ya?" Marc Antony guessed aloud.

Furrball nodded once, putting the gloves back in the bag. Marc Antony put his big paw on Furrball shoulders, making the feline look up at him. There was a gentle smile on Marc Antony's face for a brief second. He quickly shrugged the expression away but not before Furrball's keen cat eyes noticed it.

"You just go out there tonight and do what you've always done, then. Frack 'em all. If you got somethin' to say, say it with your fists."

Furrball nodded as Marc Antony squeezed his shoulder.

-The End- *part 4*


	5. Chapter 5

**FURRBALL'S PULS**

"And in the blue corner. This cat hails from Burbank California, fighting by way of Seattle, Washington. He stands at 3 feet, three inches. Ladies and Gentlemen, "Kid FUBAR", Furrball!"

Furrball didn't even hear his introduction, his focus solely on his opponent across the ring. Marc Antony thrust his paw in the air causing the females present to coo and squeal with admiration. He might have blushed, had he paid the crowd any attention. Especially considering who was in the rafters, watching.

The bell sounded for round one and Furrball rushed to the attack. Asserting his dominance of position, he cut off the ring before the koala could make it to the middle. In three moves, the cat had the koala trapped in a corner. Wasting no time, the feline dropped low as he swung a wide right hook, busting the koala's nose open. Furrball stepped inside and buried an upper into the koala's midsection causing the Aussie's jaw to drop. Locking on the target, he threw another upper as hard as his limbs would allow, causing the koala's mouthpiece to go flying into the crowd.

"Neutral corner!" The referee pulled the cat away as he rushed towards his downed opponent. Furrball complied this time, thrusting his paw in the air on his own for once. A roar came from the crowd loud enough to shake the very foundation of the United Center. Nobody even heard the announcement that Furrball had won. Fans tried to rush the ring. Pandemonium ensued. Furrball was now ranked #1 contender for the title at 6 and 0.

A sea of security guards and Marc Antony's crew ushered the victorious boxer into the locker room followed swiftly by a river of reporters trying to get a comment from Furrball's camp.

"He kicks ass, don't he?" Marc Antony said with a smirk to the nearest reporter before closing the locker room door behind him.

About two hours had passed. The main event had only been two rounds longer than Furrball's. Marc Antony had left the cat to his thoughts, taking questions from reporters outside the locker room.

Furrball got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist. Just in time, too.

"God, it stinks in here."

Furrball's ears perked.

"Do all locker rooms smell like this?" Regina appeared from behind a vending machine.

He nodded, smiling. He wasn't as surprised to see her as one might have expected. He sat on a bench and motioned for Regina. The adrenaline hadn't left his system yet and apparently had done wonders for his self-esteem.

"You never made it to the roof party," she said a bit sadly.

Furrball gently lifted her chin. The two locked eyes for a time and said nothing. Tears welled up in the raccoon's eyes. The silence was torturing her.

"Why don't you say something to me?"

Furrball stood up. Backed away for a moment, then stopped.

_You wouldn't understand._

Regina stood up, grabbed his paws tightly.

"Is that the way you… talk?" she mused, stepping completely into Furrball's space. Whether it was her scent, the adrenaline fading or the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a towel, Furrball snapped back into reality and the nervousness engulfed him once again. He nodded slightly, turning away.

"Say it again." Regina's tone was dead serious. Furrball looked at her, wondering why she made such a demand.

_You wouldn't understand_. Furrball repeated a bit louder this time. He broke free of her grip subtly and checked his towel.

"One more time, please."

Please. Was that the first time someone had said that to him?

Regina smiled softly. "Looks like you haven't heard 'please' too many times in your life, huh?"

Furrball looked at his foot paws.

_You wouldn't un-_

"Understand?"

Furrball looked up, his eyes as wide as saucers. Regina laughed at the expression he'd forged from years at the Looniversity.

"I minored in Feline Studies in college, ya know."

_Impressive._

"Yeah, well you assume too much."

Language boundaries mended, though they were, the conversation didn't go further.

Before they even had a chance to, a vent opened overhead and Furrball saw another familiar face. This one wasn't as welcome as his other company.

"Slicer! Ya gotta get outta here fast. Cops are about to take you in for questioning." Beans pointed to the vent. "And get some damned clothes on." He nodded toward Regina. "Shameless cat."

_Why are they after me?_

"Dumbass. Ask your girlfriend."

Furrball looked at Regina, confused.

"You don't remember the gunshots at the apartment?" Regina sounded surprised.

Furrball grabbed his face in frustration. He disappeared behind a locker and came back out wearing his street clothes. Just then, Marc Antony stormed into the locker room. Sizing up Beans, he turned to Furrball.

"Just go, kid. Get the hell outta here before it's too late."

Furrball opened his mouth to protest. Marc Antony shot him a look to shut him up. Turning to Beans, Marc Antony whispered hoarsely, "Get him outta here."

**FURRBALL'S PULSE**

The blue cat's head was spinning as the car came to a stop, half from being slung around in the trunk, half from his inhuman fight diet catching up to him. Just before the dizzy spell caused him to black out, Furrball felt the vehicle screech to a halt.

"Evenin' ossifer!" Furrball immediately recognized the one he knew as QuickDraw's voice from the passenger's seat.

"License and registration, please."

The blue cat didn't like the sound of the other voice. Why hadn't he heard sirens?

"Sure thing! Just as soon as I get your badge number and business."

Furrball gulped wondering if it was wise to challenge the police like that. They couldn't have made it back to the 317 in such a short amount of time.

"Why could you possibly need that? To act like you know how to read or somethin'?"

"Hey Beans, why don't I show Mr. Ossifer what we do to funny men in the 317?"

"Cool it, QD."

"That's right. Listen to your buddy and I won't have to throw you in the pound."

…

"QD, what the hell?"

BLA-BLA-BLAM!

…

…

Furrball's heart was in his throat at the sudden silence. He wasn't sure if he wanted visual confirmation for what his ears had just told him. Before he could make another move, the car started up again and they were off. Twenty minutes later, the 'stowaway' slammed against the back of the car, causing the feline to black out as the car spun to a halt.

…

..

.

*sniff sniff* "Yo Beans, he's playin' possum!"

Furrball blinked just in time to see a fist coming his way. Dodging from muscle memory, he stopped his own counter a millimeter from Blinky's temple.

"Hey, Slicer!" the sniper laughed nervously as the blue cat lowered his guard giving him some space. "Just givin' ya a love tap."

_Save it. _Furrball growled, his eyes darting around the room. His eyes quickly adjusted to the low lighting. The room was huge, something of a warehouse ground floor, complete with broken down equipment, a conveyor belt leading to a loading dock and a huge, triple-wide garage door. QuickDraw was inspecting and repairing an absurd amount of firearms. Instantly, Furrball's thoughts went to the triple tap he'd heard before he'd lost consciousness. Although, by the looks of the calm expression on the short-tempered one's face, Furrball wondered if it had been a dream. Looking up after pipe cleaning the cylinder of a colt, QD grinned and shook his head.

In no mood to inquire the nature of the other's gesture, Furrball turned his attention to the catwalk where Beans, himself was watching the events transpire.

"You chill?"

_I can guess where this place is and why you brought me here, but it's not gonna work._

Beans somersaulted from the catwalk to a crane to the floor in front of Furrball. Taking a Desert Eagle from QuickDraw's arsenal, he examined the grip.

"I can remember the first time I shot one of these things, the damn piece smacked my shooting goggles off and left a huge welt on my forehead."

Blinky grinned, apparently recalling the event.

"But QD here customized the grips for me so it was easier to negate the kickback with my own two paws! See, Slicer, sometimes ya hafta modify the rules to suit a cat's lifestyle. Especially in a dog's world."

_So that's how you justify it?_

"Justify what? We had this conversation before the last time we saved you and you were preachin' to us then, too, pouring poison into your own water supply."

_So now I owe you again, so you own me, right?  
_

"Look around you, Slicer. Go on, look around! You see any damned pets around here? Any water dishes or stupid ass squeaky toys?"

_So I'm free to go?_

"If you have to ask my permission…"

_Then I'm going. Thanks for trying to save me from myself._

"Suit yourself." Beans turned his back, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice. It was unclear to him whether Furrball knew the consequences of leaving the area or not, but warning him formally would sound like begging and that was something he could never do again.

Making his way to the open door, Furrball felt the warmth of the sunlight starting to warm his fur until an icy tinge jutted up his spine.

"El Diablo gatito."

The blue cat looked over his shoulder.

"Devil kitty," QuickDraw was holding the muzzle of a Glock, pointing the handle at Furrball. "Give 'em hell."

Furrball accepted the weapon, getting a feel for the weight. It felt heavier than he'd expected with a full mag. Hefting the handgun up, looking down the sights at an imaginary target, the blue cat squinted through his right eye. Handing the piece back to the taller cat, Furrball smiled.

_Rain check._

Out of the district, Furrball took off running towards the local police station. If there was one thing he hated worse than getting caught, it was being hunted.

TRIAL DATE

"Mr. Prosecutor, you may give your closing remarks at this time."

"Thank you, your honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard from the defense all kinds of sob stories and excuses made for this cat that could fill an entire soap opera series. I feel for him myself on some level. But I am not asking you to judge his life or his luck. Only his actions on that August afternoon. One shot, okay. Self-defense. Two or three even. Nine shots, all hitting their target? That's overkill. And if you're still not convinced, you need to accept this cold, hard fact. Innocent people don't run. Thank you for your time."

Furrball shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The public defender squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as he stood up.

"You may now make your closing statement, counselor."

"Clearly. Innocent people do not run. I know that and you know that. But what about an innocent cat, whose natural instinct is to escape by any and all means necessary? Furrball wasn't raised in a house like you or me. He wasn't taught the social graces of civility by example or anything, yet here he is, a pillar of society. Yes, he might be a bit rough around the edges and he's still finding his stride. Every day for him has always been a struggle to survive and we haven't done a thing to help him.

Despite all of this, Furrball is a pacifist. He doesn't run guns, deal drugs, roll with gang bangers or plot devious plans. He was just defending an old blind man from a couple of thugs. If somebody was lying in wait at your home with a shotgun and you returned fire with a gun you requisitioned from the very threat, would you be on trial? Probably not. This wasn't a 'specist killing'. It didn't matter that the victim was a canine. Furrball was practicing his God given right to protect himself. Overkill? That would be calculating.

If Furrball had planned for this, wouldn't he have left a few bullets in the chamber in case the intruder hadn't been alone? It doesn't matter that he ran. As soon as he learned that the authorities were looking for him, he turned himself in. That has got to vouch for his character. We have been playing with this cat's life since before he was even born. Please, all I ask is that you look into your hearts, see that he really isn't guilty or dangerous and give him a fighting chance at the pursuit of happiness we're always going on and on about. That's all."

Furrball pulled his jacket up a bit on the steps of the courtroom. Congratulations and questions aside, he was more relieved to be alone again. His only problem was his only comfort. He wasn't sure which way to go. Regina had visited the courthouse every day, but Furrball refused to even look at her until she finally stopped coming. It was the disease, spreading through his body… the desire to wander, to reset, boiling in his veins. He couldn't do this with company. He couldn't put a Band-Aid on a wound that needed stitches. The wind blew a maple leaf to the Southeast.

So that's where he headed.

-The End-


End file.
